


miles away

by carissima



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 15:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carissima/pseuds/carissima
Summary: “Stromer!”Dylan’s head snaps up and he sees Connor heading for him. Dylan can see it, the slight hesitation before Connor offers his hand, the smile that isn’t quite genuine as he closes the distance between them.





	miles away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badjujuboo (miztrezboo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/gifts).



> for my darling cass, who drunkenly asked me yesterday when i was going to write her dylan/connor. i said i'd do it, but only if i could make dylan the saddest boy in all the land. here you go, babe!
> 
> thanks to bee as always for the beta!

There’s a statue of Connor McDavid right smack in the middle of Tullio Plaza. Dylan stops in front of it and tries to compare the statue to his own memories of playing here, sitting on the bench as he watched Connor fly up the ice, or skating with him as they rushed the opponent’s goal. It’s a fair likeness, he decides, his eyes tracing the ‘C’ etched onto Connor’s jersey.

He moves past the statue and into the arena where he’s greeted by PR and ushered around the building to see the changes since he played here. Not much has changed, it’s only been five years after all, but every step brings back old memories, some good, some bad, and a few he’d rather forget. The locker room still looks the same and he runs a hand over the name plate that sits where his used to. He doesn’t recognise the name.

“The ceremony will start in an hour,” the woman - Kate? Karen? - tells him, leading him into a private suite scattered with faces he doesn’t recognize, and two that he does.

He heads for Brinksy, who’s standing by the glass, looking down at the rink where they spent so much of their time skating together, being a team.

“Hey man,” he says, his hand already out to grab Brinksy’s and pull him into a loose hug. “They dragged you here too, huh?”

“Got a three day break in the schedule and it’s the Otters,” Brinksy says, shrugging. “Surprised to see you here though, bro. I mean, a good surprise, obviously.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to face the ice. “Good memories, eh?”

“The best,” Brinksy agrees, sounding a little awkward now and Dylan sighs internally.

“So the Hawks are doing well this season,” Dylan tries. He doesn’t get to see many games, but he catches the highlights when he can.

“Yeah,” Brinksy says and, well, that’s the end of their conversation apparently. Brinksy drifts away with an apologetic shrug and Dylan’s left by himself, wondering why the hell he came anyway. He should have made some excuse and stayed away. No one would have blamed him, probably.

He’s literally twiddling his thumbs for a while until he hears a lot of commotion outside. He takes a deep breath and braces himself as several guys in sharp suits walk into the room followed by Connor, talking to the PR lady he’d been following before.

Dylan takes a moment to look at him, something he hasn’t allowed himself to do for years. He looks almost the same, Dylan realizes with a slight pang of disappointment. He’s not sure what he’s been expecting, but in the three years since he’d last spoken to Connor, not much seems to have changed for his old best friend. He’s still leaner than most players that Dylan knows, he’s still pale from spending most of the year in Edmonton and he’s still the best friend that Dylan’s ever had.

He watches Connor shake hands and make small talk, his own hands getting more clammy by the second as he waits for his turn. He doesn’t even know if Connor knew he’d be here, doesn’t know if Connor approved the invitation list.

“Stromer!”

Dylan’s head snaps up and he sees Connor heading for him. Dylan can see it, the slight hesitation before Connor offers his hand, the smile that isn’t quite genuine as he closes the distance between them.

“Davo,” Dylan says, the nickname sounding strange on his tongue. “How’ve you been, man?”

It’s a stupid question. He knows what Connor’s been up to for the past few years. Everyone involved in hockey and most Canadians know that Connor is now a Stanley Cup champion, with most major awards under his belt, while Dylan- well. Dylan certainly doesn’t have a Stanley Cup ring at home.

“Good,” Connor answers because he’s not a totally mess like Dylan. “I’ve been good. It’s good to see you, Dyl. Like, really good.”

Dylan barely has time to figure out if he’s being sincere or not before Connor is being whisked away to shake hands with some other old white guy in a suit. Connor shoots a look over his shoulder as he goes, and Dylan is out of practice at interpreting whatever the fuck is going on with Connor’s face right now.

A wave of something - regret maybe? - hits him and he quickly excuses himself and half-sprints to the restroom, locking himself in a cubicle where he can drag deep breaths of air into his lungs and have a mini-freak out where no one can see him or judge him for it.

He knew this was going to be hard. Ryan had tried to talk him out of coming but Dylan had wanted to come back. Some of the best times of his life had been in this building and god, Dylan had wanted to feel some of that emotion again. He wanted to relive those moments and pretend, just for a minute, that everything was as good as it was when he was an Otter, that his future was unwritten, that he could achieve anything if he just worked hard enough, skated hard enough, scored enough.

He’s not eighteen anymore, but fuck, he wishes he was.

Dylan waits until he’s breathing normally again to leave the cubicle and splash his face with water.

He doesn’t look in the mirror.

Dylan re-enters the suite just as it’s announced that the ceremony will begin, so he troops down with the rest of the guests, trying to keep towards the back as much as possible. His suit is starting to feel uncomfortable and he kind of wishes he was back in Toronto already.

He’s trying to sneak a glance at his watch without being too obvious about it when Connor appears next to him, slightly out of breath.

“Hey, you’re still here,” Connor says with a grin.

Dylan raises an eyebrow. “I came for the ceremony, dude. I’m not gonna leave before your jersey gets retired.”

Connor blows out a long breath, like he’d been worried that Dylan would do exactly that. “Alright, well promise me you’re not gonna run off as soon as this is over, yeah?”

It’s so close to what Dylan was planning to do that his cheeks heat up and he sees Connor’s face drop.

“Please,” Connor asks quietly. “I’ve - fuck. I’ve missed you, you know?”

Christ, he’d forgotten how impossible it was to say no to Davo.

“My flight,” Dylan says weakly. “I can’t stay for long.”

Connor’s whole expression changes, lighting up and making Dylan feel even worse. He really shouldn’t have come.

“I’m staying at the Sheraton,” Connor says quickly. “We could get room service and catch up?”

Connor’s transparent eagerness makes Dylan’s heart sink. “Sure,” he says, mustering up a smile. It’s going to be a fucking disaster and Connor is walking into it blind, as per fucking usual.

“Great!” Connor waves at someone, probably because he’s meant to be on the ice right now watching his number disappear into the rafters instead of talking to Dylan. “Meet me out in the plaza after, okay?”

“I’ll be there,” Dylan promises, and because he can’t help himself, he reaches out to straighten Connor’s tie.

He can feel Connor staring at him but he concentrates on Connor’s boring grey tie. “There,” he says finally, stepping back to put some much needed distance between them. “That’s better.”

Dylan can hear the ragged breath Connor draws in and he swallows hard. “Thanks,” Connor says eventually. “I’ll see you at the plaza.”

Dylan nods, unable to trust his voice right now, and watches Connor turn around and walk away from him.

It’s an all too familiar sight by now, but apparently it doesn’t hurt any less even after all this time.

*

Dylan half-zones out when Connor begins his speech, thanking his parents and coaches. Connor’s voice tends to get pretty monotonous when he has to speak in public and Dylan’s too busy worrying about meeting him after to concentrate.

Until he hears his name.

Of course Connor’s mentioning him, he thinks somewhat bitterly. Fucking Connor.

“I wouldn’t be standing here without my teammates,” Connor is saying with his usual humility, except today it makes Dylan’s temper flare. Teeth clenched, he listens to Connor talk about how much fun it was to be an Otter, to play with the best players he’s ever played with. “Stromer especially made me a better player on the ice.”

Dylan looks up and finds Connor smiling over at him. The arena is full and there are cameras everywhere, of course, eagerly capturing the latest milestone of McDavid’s career. So Dylan smiles back, ignoring the sea of flashes that go off as they capture the moment, and then Connor’s moved on, talking about the Oilers and Dylan can switch off again.

Watching Connor’s number as its hoisted up to the rafters is harder than Dylan had imagined it would be though. He can’t bear to look at Connor and see the pride in his face so he keeps his eyes locked on the ‘97’, and bites down hard enough on his bottom lip to draw blood, the metallic tang a welcome distraction.

He’s never going to see ‘19’ up there with the ‘97’ and Dylan has just been fooling himself this entire time, thinking that he was okay with all of this. He couldn’t win the Memorial Cup no matter how hard he played, he couldn’t even make it in the NHL when everyone else in his draft year could and he really should have listened to Ryan when he tried to talk Dylan out of coming here.

Everything passes in a blur. He shakes hands and smiles and makes conversation when he has to, but inside he feels sick. Unworthy. Years of repressed emotions are building up inside of him and he can’t explode here. He just, he can’t.

He swerves past Coach Knoblauch with a “hey, how are ya?” and a few nods before he can escape from the claustrophobic room, heading straight for the lobby and outside where he can get some air. Dylan shoves a hand through his hair and leans back against the wall, breathing hard. He should get out of here. He should go back to Toronto, back to his real life, and stop pretending that he’s part of this anymore. Stop pretending that him and Connor have anything in common, aside for two years of junior hockey. He just needs to stop.

“Dylan!”

Fuck. Dylan opens his eyes and sees Connor rushing towards him. His tie is loosened and he’s flushed, like he ran all the way here. Dylan wonders why he bothered.

“I didn’t leave,” Dylan says defensively, even though that was exactly what he was about to do. “I’m still here.”

“Brinksy said you ran out of here and I thought-” Connor trails off with a shrug. They both know what he thought. But only Dylan knows how right he was. “We can go? If you want.”

Dylan wants to say no. He wants to tell Connor to fuck off with every fiber of his being. He wants to go home and crawl into his bed and maybe never come back out again. He wants to scream and shout and curse, he wants to know why the universe keeps fucking with him over and over again.

“Alright,” is what he actually says though. He even manages a smile.

*

Connor’s car drops them off right in front of the hotel and Connor leads the way in. Everyone in the hotel seems to know who he is, of course, and Dylan follows behind, forgotten and unnoticed. Neither of them speak in the elevator, but it doesn’t seem to bother Connor because Dylan hasn’t managed more than a handful of words since they left the arena.

Connor’s suite is huge, with views overlooking the bay. Dylan gravitates over to the window while Connor dumps his things and starts stripping off his suit. He doesn’t turn back around until he hears Connor clear his throat, and suddenly all the tension Dylan’s been feeling leaks into the room until he’s almost choking on it.

“You didn’t leave,” is what Connor leads with.

Dylan sighs and leans back against the window, lifting his gaze to meet Connor’s. “You asked me to stay.”

Connor doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, but Dylan can see that he’s choosing his words carefully when he next speaks. “I don’t want to say anything that will scare you away,” Connor says finally. “I don’t-. Fuck. This is hard, Dyls. I don’t want to not see you for three years again.”

Dylan looks away, guilt eating at him. “Sorry,” he manages thickly. “I just. It’s hard, you know? Except of course you don’t know. And that’s not your fault, but I’m not sure it’s mine either.”

Connor sinks down onto the bed. “You stopped talking to me because you’re not in the show,” he says carefully. Like he’s looking for confirmation.

“I know, okay? I know,” Dylan mutters. “I know it’s a shitty reason and I know it’s childish and whatever, but you’re Connor fucking McDavid, you’re the captain of the Oilers and the best player in the world. Do you know how hard that would be to deal with even if I had made it?”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but his face is drawn and he’s staring right at Dylan.

“But I haven’t made it, I’m just the biggest bust from the McDavid draft,” Dylan says casually, like it doesn’t hurt every single piece of him to say it out loud. To repeat what he’s read online. The third overall who can’t handle the top level. “The guy who coasted on McDavid’s talent.”

“That’s not true,” Connor says fiercely, his hands curled into angry fists. “Since when did you start listening to all that shit? You’re the best player I’ve ever played with, Dyls. You’re letting them get into your head.”

“I’m not the best player you’ve ever played with, Davo,” Dylan scoffs. “You’ve played with Matthews, Eichel, Draisaitl. They’re elite fucking players, Connor. I’m gonna spend my whole career in the AHL. Even the Roadrunners didn’t want me. I’m an AHL-er and it’s fucking shit to watch you night after night, just getting better while I watch kids younger than me making the jump. It’s shit, alright? And I’m sorry I couldn’t be your friend anymore, but it was too hard and I don’t care if you understand that or not.”

“I don’t understand,” Connor says, shaking his head. Dylan watches Connor get to his feet and move towards him and Dylan braces himself. “I don’t understand why you just dropped off the fucking planet, Stromer. I don’t understand why you didn’t just talk to me. I like, I could have helped or something. We were friends, Dyls. Best fucking friends. When they asked me who I wanted to invite today, the only person I could think of was you. I didn’t even know if you’d come, but. Fuck, Dyls, we’re Otters, you know?”

Dylan exhales slowly. “No, Connor. You’re the captain of the Oilers. And I’m the second line center for the Marlies. We’re not Otters anymore.”

Seeing the hurt expression on Connor’s face just makes Dylan feel even shittier about himself, which is the entire reason he stopped talking to Connor in the first place.

“I used to call your house,” Connor says abruptly. Dylan frowns but Connor just plows on. “I’d ask your mom how you were. Ryan used to give in every now and again to give me updates because he said I was so pathetic. I drove past your condo a few times over the summer, but I was too scared that you’d shut the door in my face if I knocked. I even thought about getting Marns to come with me, but he refuses to talk to me about you. Like, he stopped talking to me for three months when I tried to get your new number from his phone.”

“That is pretty pathetic, dude,” Dylan says after a beat.

“Yeah,” Connor agrees with a small smile.

Neither of them say anything for a while, and Dylan wonders if that’s going to be it. The official end of their friendship, here in the Sheraton in Erie on a Thursday afternoon. The final chapter.

“I have to head to the airport,” he says, when Connor stays silent. “My flight leaves in a few hours.”

“Oh,” Connor says with a frown, sounding disappointed. Dylan’s not sure why, since all they’ve managed to do is clear the air a little. Dylan hasn’t been a part of his life for years now, it’s not like anything will change once he’s back in Toronto and Connor heads back to Edmonton. “So um, your number?”

Dylan blinks at him.

“I mean, can I have your new number?” Connor clarifies with a flush. “I just. Like, I won’t text you all the time like I used to. But maybe we could hang out in the off-season?”

Dylan wants to say no.

“Sure,” he says with an internal sigh. He takes Connor’s phone and programs his number in, presses call for a few seconds until he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. “If I uh, don’t reply though-.”

“It’s okay,” Connor says quickly, taking his phone back and staring at the screen like he’s memorising the number in case Dylan takes it back. “I won’t be offended. Just don’t go away again, yeah?”

“Okay,” Dylan says and wonders if it’s a lie. He doesn’t even know. “I’ll grab a cab downstairs, you don’t have to come down or anything.”

Connor nods and hesitates again before he holds out his hand.

Dylan huffs out a tiny laugh and slots his hand into Connor’s, unresisting when Connor eases him into a quick one-armed hug. “See you around, Davo.

“Count on it,” Connor promises.

Dylan leaves him standing in the middle of his nondescript hotel room and decides to take the stairs back down. He’s out of breath by the time he slides into a cab but he feels a little lighter. On instinct, he takes out his phone and types out a quick message.

_Dylan: congrats on retiring ur jersey, dude_

_Connor: :D thanks 4 coming!!_

He doesn’t reply, but he stares out of the window, smiling.

*

Connor keeps his promise and doesn’t text more than once every two weeks, and he never talks about hockey. Dylan doesn’t always reply. He’s probably about 50/50 on responses, but Connor keeps texting him anyway. It’s nice. He sends Connor a text congratulating him on reaching the playoffs and gets an excited emoji-filled text back. When they get knocked out in the conference finals, Dylan waits a few days and then sends a message trashing Laine and Scheifele. Connor responds a minute later with a laughing emoji.

So maybe he can do this. His feelings about Connor are still all wrapped up with his self-esteem issues, but he’s doing okay. His season is over and he’s spending most of his time with Matt, and Ryan will be coming home soon now that the Oilers are out, and Dylan’s hoping to persuade both of them to go on vacation with him for a few weeks before they have to start training for next season.

He’s also spending a lot of time lazing around in bed, watching Netflix and pretending that he’s not watching the playoffs, or that he didn’t watch Connor almost single-handedly drag his team through every game.

When someone knocks on his door, Dylan’s only wearing pyjama pants and an old Otters t-shirt, so when he answers and comes face to face with Connor, who looks tired and worn but stupidly happy, Dylan almost shuts the door in his face.

“What are you doing here?” Dylan asks.

“Can I come in?” Connor counters, still wearing that dumb grin that makes Dylan feel suspicious.

“Sure,” he says slowly, letting the door swing open wide enough to let Connor step past him and into his apartment.

“Nice place,” Connor says, looking around at the clothes Dylan’s left lying around and the empty takeout cartons scattered everywhere.

“Thanks,” Dylan says dryly. He folds his arms across his chest and tries to feign casualness. “Connor, what are you doing here?”

“I thought we could hang out,” he answers, looking pleased with himself. “I mean, if you’re not too busy.”

Dylan raises an eyebrow. It’s past noon and he’s not dressed, so he definitely doesn’t have any plans, but still. “Connor.”

“You said,” Connor insists, clearly picking up on the reluctance in Dylan’s voice. “You said we could hang out in the off-season.”

“I know,” Dylan says patiently. “But I’m not- I mean, I need. Fuck.”

“You need?” Connor prompts, still looking stupidly, stupidly hopeful.

“I need time to like, prepare or whatever,” Dylan says, annoyed by Connor being here in his space, uninvited. “I can’t just. You can’t, okay? You can’t just drop by like we’re friends. I’m not ready.”

Connor’s smile slowly fades. “Oh. I thought, like, you replied. To my texts, I mean. I thought that maybe that meant we were okay.”

“Connor,” Dylan repeats, pained. He thought that Connor had understood, but as usual, Connor remains completely oblivious. “I’m trying, okay? But it’s still fucking hard.”

“It’s hard for you to see me,” Connor says flatly.

“Well, yeah,” Dylan shrugs. It’s nearly fucking impossible.

“Because I make you feel shit,” Connor continues, and Dylan’s taken aback by the force of it.

“Yeah,” he says again, quietly.

“Which makes me feel shit,” Connor says, rubbing his hand over his face. He hasn’t shaved yet since their loss.

“So if you feel shit, and I feel shit, why the fuck are you here?” Dylan snaps, annoyed with both of them.

“I don’t know!” Connor snaps back. “I don’t fucking know, except you’re still my best friend and I fucking miss you and I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“I know, I fucking know, alright?” Dylan half-yells at him. He really fucking wishes he’d put on a shirt before answering the door. “I know it’s my fucking problem and my fucking issues, okay?”

“Can’t you just get the fuck over it already?” Connor says, taking a step towards him, half-pleading and half-frustrated. “Just get the fuck over it so I can have my best friend back.”

“No, I can’t just get the fuck over it,” Dylan says through gritted teeth. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You wanna know what’s wrong with me?” Connor’s face twists into something unhappy, and for the first time, Dylan wonders if he’s not the only one who’s been suffering. He wonders for a fleeting moment what he’s missed in Connor’s life in the past three years. “Nice of you to ask, asshole. What’s wrong with me is that my best friend ghosted me for three years, then turned up at my jersey retirement ceremony like nothing had happened, blamed me for everything that’s shitty in his life and now won’t hang out with me because I still make him feel like shit just by existing. Did I miss anything?”

“Fuck you,” Dylan says softly. “Fuck you, Connor.”

“Oh right,” Connor says, nodding his head as if in agreement. “There’s that too, I guess.”

“Wha-“

Connor doesn’t let him finish, because he’s suddenly shoving Dylan back until he hits the wall with a tiny wince. Then Connor’s stepping way into his personal space and Connor is kissing him.

Dylan doesn’t move a muscle. He doesn’t think he can, he’s possibly paralyzed with shock.

“Fuck you, Dylan,” Connor says, pulling back and glaring at him. “Fuck you for this too.”

Dylan watches Connor spin around and head for the door. Connor looks back at him as his hand reaches for the handle and Dylan finds himself moving towards him, his hands grabbing at Connor’s hips when he’s close enough.

“What the fuck was that?” Dylan asks gruffly. He leans in and kisses Connor hard before he can answer, his teeth biting down on Connor’s bottom lip until he hears Connor moan loudly.

Connor doesn’t answer, his hands busily skimming over Dylan’s bare skin, tracing his fingers up and down his torso as he maps out the hard lines of Dylan’s honed body. He kisses Dylan again, tugs him close enough to grind their hips together.

He’s so hard that he’s dizzy with it. He drags Connor closer, demanding more from his kisses, urging him on with loud moans as Connor’s fingers bite into his skin. He wants bruises. He wants to feel this tomorrow. He wants to feel this forever.

“Shit,” he swears, rocking his hips up helplessly, seeking friction. He quickly strips Connor down to his boxers, kicks off his own pants and shoves his hand down Connor’s shorts, wrapping his hand around Connor’s leaking dick.

Connor makes a little noise and Dylan pushes him against the door, his hand working in firm, easy strokes to draw more gasps from Connor.

“C’mon,” he mumbles, panting into Connor’s mouth. He wants to take Connor apart, wants to make him tremble and fall, wants to have something of Connor that no one else has. “Connor, come on.”

“Shut up,” Connor gasps, his head falling against Dylan’s shoulder. He can feel Connor shaking in his arms and it makes him feel stronger and more clear-headed than he’s felt in months. “Shut the fuck up, Dyls.”

Dylan takes his hand from Connor’s dick, ignoring Connor’s indignant whine, and shoves his boxers down. His follow quickly and Dylan lets out a shuddering moan when he slides his dick against Connor’s. “You’re gonna come,” he says, pressing his body against Connor’s, pressing Connor hard against the door. “I’m gonna mess you the fuck up.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Connor chants, wrapping his arms around Dylan’s neck. “Kiss me.”

Dylan tries, he honestly does, but it’s less of a kiss and more just panting into each other’s mouths. “C’mon, you first,” he breathes, his entire body on fire as he drives them both on. “You’re good at coming first.”

Connor freezes against him then comes with a loud moan, cursing weakly as he slumps back against the wall. “You’re such an asshole,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on Dylan’s dick, flushed and leaking against his hip.

Dylan swallows hard. “You gonna leave me high and dry?” he asks.

Connor shakes his head and pushes Dylan back against the wall, dropping to his knees between Dylan’s spread legs. Dylan swears long and low, careful as he slides a hand into Connor’s hair.

“This is what you want, right?” Connor breathes against Dylan’s hip, making him shiver. “I’m on my knees for you, Stromer. You’re in control.”

“Suck my dick, Connor,” Dylan groans, nudging Connor’s mouth closer to his cock.

“Say please,” Connor says, because he’s an asshole.

Dylan wants to say no. But he also really wants to get his dick sucked. And he really, really wants Connor to be the one sucking him off. “Please,” he sighs, closing his eyes as he feels Connor’s lips wrap around his dick.

Objectively, it’s a pretty good blowjob. Connor’s mouth is wet and warm and very willing, and he’s not shy to use his hands and fingers, teasing Dylan and driving him quickly to the edge.

Connor mumbles something but he’s got Dylan’s dick in his mouth so Dylan doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s saying.

“Open your eyes,” Connor says, letting Dylan’s dick slide out of his mouth for a moment until Dylan looks down at him. Then Connor swallows him back down and fuck, the sight of Connor on his knees for him drives Dylan crazy. He comes with a muffled groan, unable to stop watching Connor as he easily swallows, then sits back on his haunches.

Connor rests his head against Dylan’s thigh, breathing heavily. Dylan’s hand is still in his hair and he combs his fingers through the short strands, leaning against the wall because he’s pretty sure that his legs won’t hold him up right now.

“We should probably talk,” Connor says eventually. He doesn’t look up.

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. He doesn’t look down.

Eventually they make their way to Dylan’s unmade bed, and Dylan ignores Connor’s judgemental glare because fuck him. Dylan flops down on the bed, letting Connor settle himself into Dylan’s side until he’s comfortable.

“I don’t want you to feel shit around me,” Connor says quietly.

Dylan strokes his hand down Connor’s spine. “Me neither,” he admits, his hand trailing down further, brushing over Connor’s ass.

Connor lifts his head and searches Dylan’s face. “This feels good,” he says softly. “Right?”

Dylan nudges him closer, kissing him as sweetly as he knows how. “Yeah,” he says honestly. “This feels good.”

Connor smiles and Dylan can’t help but smile back.

“So, you wanna hang out this summer?” Connor asks.

Dylan tucks Connor back into his side. He thinks about having Connor here in his apartment all summer. Thinks about going to visit Connor’s place, wherever that is. He thinks about kissing Connor and maybe training together and maybe a vacation, if there’s time between Connor’s commitments.

Then he thinks about saying no, thinks about saying goodbye to Connor and having it stick this time.

“Yeah,” he says, because there’s no contest. He wraps his arms around Connor and rolls them until he’s sprawled out on top of Connor, who looks surprised but disgustingly pleased nonetheless. “Let’s hang out.”

Connor’s smile grows even wider.

“So,” Dylan says, getting comfortable. “What’s new with you?”


End file.
